


Revolution

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: The Game [6]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anger-Fueled Intimacy, Descriptions of Violence/Death, Dysfunctional Family Dynamic, F/M, Gen, Italian Mafia, Revenge-Seeking, Russian Mafia, She-wolf - Freeform, Vendettas, Wolf-Pack Mentality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-12 08:08:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5658919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's only room for one king in Gotham.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Revolution

**Author's Note:**

> I took heavy inspiration from the first season of Gotham; I cannot, for the life of me, remember the exact episode, but it involved a rather unfortunate interaction between Fish Mooney and Oswald Cobblepot that began with tension and ended in bloodshed. Par for the course in Gotham, no?
> 
> Rated M for violence and sexual content (also seems to be par for the course....) - set after "Galatea".

_Oswald’s_ is rather quiet, for the evening hour, which magnifies all other sounds by default. Specifically, the sound of breathing. Like a strange musical number, the kind that comes on the radio without warning and everyone listens to it because there’s nothing else on, and thirty seconds into the tune, no one knows how to respond to what they’re hearing but, again, there’s nothing else good on, so they keep listening. 

Butch keeps his own breathing low and steady, nearly inaudible even to his own ears, just so he can listen to those around him. The most distinct, unsurprisingly, is Penguin’s sharp inhales and forced exhales. There is no attempt to disguise his fury, not tonight. Miss DeLaine’s brazenness, apparently, will be met with unashamed rage, written across the small dark-haired man’s face in tight lines and a gaze smoldering with ice. Around him, there are at least three men with guns on display, stationed in a way Butch can only believe to be deliberate, to showcase Penguin’s power and authority in this place.

By contrast, Miss DeLaine is calm and composed. Well, maybe not _composed_ in the strictest definition, but her earlier anxiety seems to have faded or at least been tucked away, and she sits with perfect posture, both hands neatly folded atop the polished wood table, and she’s clearly doing her damnedest to be a lady. There’s no visible threat here, no show of force like the one Penguin’s put on, but Butch has a dreadful suspicion that her showing up, unannounced, with only him, Butch Gilzean, formerly in the employee of Oswald Cobblepot and now no longer, as company, has made things much worse.

“Forgive me for the lack of notice.” Miss DeLaine says, and she sounds genuinely remorseful about it; if she isn’t…well, it can never be said this woman isn’t a damned good liar. “This was an impulsive decision. I hope I did not disturb your business hours.”

While Butch doesn’t think that was a deliberate jab at the club’s conspicuous vacancy tonight, he also knows it could be taken as such, and clearly, by the way he sucks in another breath and wrestles a humorless smile into place, Penguin definitely did. “I suppose I should be apologizing to you, my dear.” The smaller man says, without similar gentility in his tone. “Your appearance is quite unexpected. We all thought you were dead.”

The lack of both subtlety and tact is exactly that: crude and redefining “in your face”. Butch shifts a little, casting a nervous glance down at his new employer, but Miss DeLaine offers a gracious smile and tiny nod. “Yes, I know.”

“And yet,” Penguin continues, in the same tone, and Butch wonders if he ought to be doing something right now; surely Mr. Zsasz wouldn’t have stood for this kind of degradation, however subtle it currently may be? “Here you are. Alive and well. Against the odds. Some might even call it a miracle.”

“Not unlike yourself, I am sure.” Miss DeLaine answers; Butch squirms, just a little, feeling out of place and, to be honest, rather stupid. What would Mr. Zsasz be doing, right now? Fingering his gun, perhaps? Making a sharp comment about “playing nice” or “that’s no way to talk to a lady”? What’s _wrong_ with him?

Penguin provides an icy smile to compliment the sharp and rapid uplift of his shoulders. “What can I say, my dear?” he replies, tone once more failing to be anything less than sardonic. “Gotham is my home.”

“Indeed.” She nods, though there is tension playing at the back of her throat this time; the carefully-constructed wall of professionalism has a telling chip in its center. “Which reminds me.” One hand slips to her lap, calmly ignoring the way all three hired guns lock fingers around their respective weapons, prepared to draw and fire with a moment’s suspicion, and retrieves a black box, stretched in length but narrow in width, to innocently slide across the table. “I brought this for you.”

The surprise appears more in the delicate upward quirk to both eyebrows and a tiny flicker in pale eyes than anywhere else in his expression, and then it’s quickly replaced with contrived gratitude, as long fingers quickly open the box and withdraw its contents to the light: a letter opener with intricate details across the hilt and gold for its blade. “My goodness,” Penguin murmurs, weighing it between both hands and tracing fingers over the shimmering blade with a jeweler’s critical eye, “is this real?”

“Yes.” She nods. “My uncle received it some years ago. I thought you might have more use for it than myself.”

The air has changed, uncomfortably so, and Butch once more feels at a loss. He knows he wasn’t always this way, wasn’t always apt to forget himself and waste time instead of acting as needed, but now is not then, and he is indeed at a loss. The tension is thick amongst them, for reasons he can’t quite place, and the way Penguin has taken hold of Miss DeLaine’s hand and has yet to release it sends a warning signal up his spine. This scene feels familiar, for all the wrong reasons, and he wonders if, maybe, _possibly…_

“I wish I had a gift to give you in return.” Penguin murmurs, and the next burst of anxiety is less willing to be ignored, as Butch remembers _why_ this scene feels familiar. “Such generosity should be returned among friends.”

Miss DeLaine’s eyes drop to the hand still held captive on the table, too far from her proximity and much too near Penguin’s, and Butch takes a step forward, gaze darting between their joined hands and the one holding a letter opener, whose blade suddenly looks too sharp and whose hilt is suddenly held less like an office tool and more like—

Light gleams bright off the blade, reflecting its sudden movement, and then it is quickly snuffed out as gold finds a burial ground in the tender flesh between thumb and index finger. And in that sudden, swift motion, the fog is lifted; Butch suddenly feels alive, revived, reawakened. He immediately darts forward, one hand reaching for his gun, but why would he need a gun when he can easily take the little bird in his bare hands and…

It’s when Miss DeLaine’s other hand, the uninjured one, swipes out and halts any further movement, that Butch recognizes the violent urges, that he feels the familiarity of righteous fury bubbling up inside, that he feels instinct demanding blood for blood, vengeance for wrongs against the one to whom his allegiance has been sworn, albeit in his own blood and suffering; but _loyalty_ is exactly that, and all focus is directed to the thin stream, dark against her pale flesh, slowly dribbling from an open wound. He wants to avenge her. He wants to make Penguin suffer. She has been wronged, and it is his duty to repay this injury in kind.

But she commands him to stay, and he obeys.

“I think we both know,” she whispers, very slowly withdrawing her bleeding hand once the blade has been dislodged, with deliberate idleness from its wielder, “that was quite uncalled for.”

“I disagree.” Penguin replies, his earlier ire now replaced satisfaction now that blood has been spilt by his hand. “But in the category of things _uncalled for_ , allow me to address them with you now, _Miss_ DeLaine.”

And he does exactly that, in a tone that practically reeks of establishing dominance, with a heavy dose of smug satisfaction that only weighs heavier as the one-sided conversation continues. Butch feels the familiarity of indignant rage prickling up his spine; the aggravation of having her hand continually keeping him at bay wars violently with the need to _obey, obey, always obey_ that has engrained itself deep within his brain, like a fresh brand that never loses its white-hot blaze. Obey. He must obey.

“Your listing of what is ‘uncalled for’ poorly masks the true point of contention between us, Mr. Cobblepot.” Miss DeLaine finally says, and there is no guise of congeniality over icy words spoken in junction with a poisonous glare. “It would not have mattered, had I brought Butch, or Selina, or Victor. Each one would have been perceived as an insult.”

“ _Perceived_ , you say.” Penguin repeats, leaning forward; Butch finds his gun, beneath his jacket folds, and holds it tight. “Your insolence is only outmatched by your naiveté, little girl. Do you honestly believe you can steal what is rightfully mine and then parade it about without consequences?”

The sound she makes resembles, and loosely at that, a laugh, but it’s cold and humorless. “ _Rightfully yours_.” She echoes, fingers clenching inward; he thinks to remind her of the wound, but her fingers fist into and smear the blood and she barely blinks, so he supposes it would be a wasted warning. “You wriggled and writhed and squirmed your way to this place, and you believe any of the spoils are rightfully yours? You, Mr. Cobblepot, are as cheap and as entitled as a whore. You could not run a _nightclub_ of your own competence, and now you believe you can run a _city_.”

She leans forward, unmoved by the icy rage which has solidified across the other man’s features, and why should she be, when the same is mirrored on her own? “Call yourself what you will. But in my eyes, I will only ever see the little bird caged while Don Maroni puts you in place beneath his oversized heel; the meek little rat cowering at my uncle’s feet and begging for his cheese. You, Mr. Cobblepot, are no king. You are no don. You are nothing.”

“And yet,” Penguin matches her, leaning forward to close distance across a tabletop, “I am indeed the king. You exist in your little island in _my_ city. No one knows you’re alive, little girl. And even less would care. So few, in fact,” he adds, with a humorless smirk, and Butch envisions breaking it apart with a single fist, “that I must wonder why you didn’t just stay dead.”

Fury, again, but still obedience, because she has yet to command him to act. For a moment, she holds silence, and then she reaches out and presses her hand, the one stained red with fresh blood, firmly to Penguin’s pale cheek. “When this is over,” she whispers, holding him fast with a solitary grip, “I would have you remember it did not have to be this way.”

She releases him with a deliberate flourish, a vibrant streak of crimson left impressed upon his cheek on down the jaw, and stands with swift grace. Butch follows, rage ebbed aside as he takes note of the dark red line pulsing from her flesh. He withdraws a handkerchief, offering it as a temporary bandage, but she refuses. Her icy silence continues throughout the ride home, and she similarly ascends to the study without a word. There, he watches, uncomfortably suspended between bowing out and inquiring if she has need of him, as she pours herself a tall glass of wine. The sight only raises his anxieties, because in all the time he’s known her, informally or otherwise, from a distance or in close proximity, he’s never seen this woman drink alcohol. Not that amount, and certainly not at that unnecessarily expedited rate.

“Miss DeLaine,” he begins, but once more, she cuts him off with a sharp gesture; the other hand busies itself with refilling her glass.

“That will be all, Butch.” She answers. He knows there’s no point in arguing. 

***

The old man is frail in body, but there’s iron in his heart and in his will. He doesn’t scream. He doesn’t beg. He locks his jaw and refuses to pry it open, even when the knife gleams close to his face. There’s no point in dragging this out. Playing before delivering the final blow is only as fun as the participation of the prey. The old man gives him nothing, and so Victor makes it quick. He slices the jugular and watches the blood spill in diluted streams. This one was on blood thinners, and there is an element of mercy in that simple fact: he bleeds out fast and dies quickly, almost painlessly.

Victor decides there is something to be admired for possessing a stubborn soul. He covers the man with a blanket, tucking him in as one might a child, and draws the sheet over a face of papery flesh and deeply-etched wrinkles. And then he leaves. The night is still young, and he has yet to be satisfied.

In the heart of downtown, outside a seedy bar known for attracting the younger crowd, primarily due to the manager’s feigned ignorance of liquor laws and open willingness to sell his products, no matter how young the customer, a group of six college-age patrons meander out into the street. The boys carry their weight with great swaying steps, sometimes missing the sidewalk entirely and stumbling off the curb without a care, and their female partners laugh far too loudly, hysterical pitches of delight exploding from painted lips as they observe life through the hazy lenses of far too much alcohol and possibly a few illicit drugs.

Frankly, this is cheating: the prey is so drunk they don’t even know left from up and right from down. The booze and drugs running through their system is a distraction in and of itself; the chosen partner for each one adds to the distraction, as they fall into the throes of public indecency. The girls flaunt their bodies without shame, moaning encouragement as male hands fumble with clothing, stumbling over the simplest movements, huffing and puffing, grunting and rutting like pigs. It’s disgusting, disgraceful, devoid of any meaning or real connection; just another body to get a quick fix and then go on.

He’s a hypocrite, of sorts, to regard it this way. Time was, not so terribly long ago, he was the same. The adrenaline pumping through his system, the bloodlust not yet sated even in the wake of a fresh kill, was the driving force, thrumming deep in his bones and running blood hot through his veins. There had never been a moment when he’d suffered in the aftermath, not with women eager to please and opening their legs to his urgent demands. Sometimes it had been quick; other times a drawn out sensation, to relive the moment, forge the images of spilt blood and dying screams as iron-clad memories, and then it was over.

Iris ruined it. She ruined _him_. One moment, a torrent of pent-up rage and fury, clawing at him, seeking blood, seeking satisfaction for the wrongs committed against her; the next, a succubus, barring no refusal from her chosen prey, calmly shredding his defenses, dismantling his control and composure, and leaving him a ravaged wreck in the aftermath. She stole his control, his domination over a selected female partner in bed, and gave him a taste of paradise. It was the glorious sense of ecstasy, the first real high experienced by the addict, and nothing else compares.

Even now, he lacks the anticipation he once held for a fresh young specimen of the female persuasion. Once, he savored it, played with her more than the male counterpart, drank in every last scream while delicately carving up the soft curves of a woman’s body. Once, it was an intimate affair, far more so than any following rendezvous had been. Now, he cares nothing for their beauty, only to watch it be destroyed by his hands.

The streets are too public a place for this; he waits while it finishes—or in the case of one couple, doesn’t finish, not on the desired note—and they amble back to a two-story residence, located in one of three neighborhoods outsourced by the campus to provide housing for students who desire to be rid of dormitory life. The last man in doesn’t bother, or forgets to, lock the door. Getting inside is almost insultingly simple, but he doesn’t protest the point. His tongue thirsts for blood, and it will be spilled tonight, with screams and pleas for mercy. Just the way he likes it.

He takes no chances with the boys; even when drunk, a walking bulk of testosterone can prove to be enough of a nuisance. Instead, he keeps it quick and simple: one bullet to the back of the neck, each, to sever the spine and render them immobile. They lie on the floor, each bleeding, but still conscious, still alive, even if only barely, and that’s what he wants. Let them watch, as he calmly ascends to the upper level, where the little lambs are bleating and wailing; let them hear the screams, the shrieks, until each one drowns in blood and fades to a distant choking cry. 

_Six little mice went out to play. Three are dead and gone, and three more will soon be on their way._

The sixth, the last of the males, manages an impressive feat, lips remembering the ability to move and tongue working enough to choke out the inevitable question, the one initially spoken by the little girls: _Why?_

Victor shrugs one shoulder, sighing quietly. “There’s never a good answer to that question, young man.” He murmurs, as though explaining a great mystery of life to a child. “Tonight just happened to be the night for you to die.”

***

He sets foot inside the house, and immediately knows something is wrong. Selina is in the front room, comforting a very distressed Shakta with gentle touches and low murmurs. Butch is pacing at random through the dining room, the kitchen, the hall, and back again. He stops, mid-step, upon seeing Victor, and swallows tightly. Apparently words are failing the larger man, because he simply nods upward, with lips drawn in and concern blatant in his eyes.

He searches the library first, without success; a quick search of the bedroom and adjacent bathroom yields the same lacking results, so he moves to the study next. Iris is there, facing the far wall with distant eyes and a wine glass tight in her grip. Two things grab his immediate attention, upon stepping over the threshold: the half-empty wine bottle on the desk, and the hideous mark stretching downward, tucked away in the soft curve of her right hand.

“What is _that_?” he asks, advancing forward. She doesn’t look at him, simply casts an idle glance downward and then shrugs it off as a “minor altercation”. He feels fury lick hot through his veins, and the fact that she won’t look at him certainly doesn’t help.

“He dies tonight.” He declares, judge and jury, and soon executioner. There have been many offenses, prior to this point; some have been exclusively against Iris, others not, and each one has been Penguin’s to claim. Running Don Falcone into exile was the least egregious of them, yes, but others since have only escalated in their blatant disrespect. _This_ , laying hands on her, causing her injury, spilling her blood…there is only one punishment for this. And he will take his time with the little bird, wringing every last scream from his—

“No, he does not.”

The blood freezes in his veins, ice cold, and he distinctly feels as though she just drove a knife in his gut. The room spins wildly; it takes a moment before he can orient himself once more. “You promised.” He whispers, stepping closer to her. “You _swore_ to me, Iris. Don’t…don’t do this. Don’t you dare…”

“Do not argue with me, Victor.” She says, staring deeply into the hearth, taking another sip from her glass. “You will not touch him.”

“He hurt you.” He should not be reduced to begging and pleading, but he feels the urgency straining every nerve in his body, the skin crawling unchecked across his bones, wanting blood, wanting Penguin’s mark etched deep, and he can think of no other course to take. He can’t think much at all, actually. “He ripped into your skin. He made you bleed. He _hurt_ you.”

“I am aware, thank you.” She takes another sip. “It changes nothing.”

His hands lock down onto the desk edge, knuckles whitening, fingers bruising beneath his grip. “What good are the promises I make you—what good are the promises _you_ make _me_ ,” his throat locks tight around the words, and they come out hoarse and ragged, “if you intend to break each and every one?”

“Leave it be.”

“ _Why_?” he slams his hands against the desk, once, then straightens and advances forward with furious strides. “You will _not_ put me on a leash again, Iris. I am not your dog, or your pet, or—”

Her hand violently flings forward, casting the wine glass and its lingering remnants into the fire. Crystal shards explode within the brick foundations, and the wine hisses its last moments of existence before being swallowed by engorged flames. Iris whips around to face him, the image startling even by his standards: eyes too bright on her face, lips thinned and drawn back to bare teeth in a vicious snarl. Her natural beauty has been ripped away, half cast in firelight and half in shadows, and he wonders if _this_ , finally, is the face of her monster, abruptly brought to life and put on display for all to witness.

“Until he is on his knees, kissing my grandfather’s ring and groveling at my feet,” she snarls, nearly a shriek of unbridled rage clawing free of her throat, “you _will not_ touch him!! You will not touch him, you will not go near him, you will do _nothing_! If you cannot do this, then _get out_!!”

Surprise and Bewilderment are not unknown to him, but still he considers them strangers, for they never remain long enough to make acquaintance. He recognizes their fleeting visitation now, and then they depart without incident. In their place, something else rises up, something that steals his cool logic and casts it aside in a violent motion. He only recognizes that he’s moved forward once she’s a bare distance away, her arms spread wide across the mantle and head bowed toward the flames.

“If you’re going to exile me,” he says, very slowly, “I have the right to know my crime.”

She forces out something that vaguely resembles a chuckle; vaguely being the operative word. “If this is how you are going to live, then perhaps you should not have come back.” She whispers. “Your exact words, were they not?”

“…Yes.”

Her fingernails contract against the wood, scraping lightly, barely audible over the crackling and spitting flames. “Mr. Cobblepot had a similar sentiment to share.” She continues, in the same tone. “I imagine there are quite a few in this city who share such an opinion; who would happily see me dead in a street gutter. Who would be happy to know I am rotting away in the woods. I never imagined you would be among them, Victor. But it would not be the first time you have done the unexpected, and left me hurting for it.”

His jaw locks, briefly, eyes flickering down and then up, and he takes another step forward. _Control. Always control._ “Just how long do you plan to punish me for that?”

“Do not be dramatic.” She replies icily; he can see the tension rippling across her shoulders. “I have hardly _punished_ you.”

“And yet you haven’t forgiven me.” Two more steps; the tension spreads wide across her exposed back, a perfect target, and the knife in his pocket thrums eagerly. A simple draw, reach across the front to her throat, and—

_No. No, not you. Never you._

Once more, she acts without warning, in such a way that he is unprepared for and consequently he falls victim to her impulsivity. This isn’t the first time she’s struck him with bare hands, nor is it the first time she’s scratched him in the process; this one, however, has far more fury at its root. She unsteadies his balance, and she doesn’t give him time to recover and respond before taking a step forward, eyes dark, face cast in shadow once more. Angry. Furious. Wanting for blood and pain and suffering.

“Forgiveness.” She nearly spits the word like an insult. “Have we truly _forgiven_ each other for anything, Victor? Do we know anything—do we _excel_ in anything, as much we do in hurting each other? Do we spend more time dreaming sweet dreams of one another, or do we dwell in that unmentionable place, where I carve masochism into my flesh for want and love and hate for you, and you envision all the ways in which I will become just one of the many in your skin?”

“One of many?” he repeats, pressing forward, hands locking her in place while the polished wood digs into her nape, while the fire hisses happily in its hearth and he would only need to thrust forward, hurl her downward…but never release her. _No. No._ If she is to burn, he will burn with her. The flames will enfold them, mold them together as one, and cradle them to a final rest. “You think I would forget you so easily? You think I would not look at your mark, day after day after day, caress you with my fingers, touch you, kiss you, and always remember?”

He isn’t expecting the low shiver, the rippling muscles beneath his touch, and he certainly isn’t anticipating the darkening of crystal-blue to sapphire, rare jewels permanently suspended on a face of ivory, of porcelain. Beautiful. Cold. Unattainable.

 _But she’s not unattainable, is she?_ A voice hisses the reminder through his inner ear, and it solidifies his resolve. _She’s mine. Only mine. Mine and mine alone._

“You’re always making me declare it.” He whispers, pressing even closer; his hands drop to her hips, fingers finding purchase through clothing, securing over the delicate bones and smooth skin. He envisions bruises forming, blossoming wide, burrowing deep, so deep she’ll feel it for a week, maybe two, maybe a month. “I think it’s time you return the favor.”

“Release me.” She hisses, but he sees the tremor in her eyes and knows she understands the helplessness of her situation. She will not own him tonight. She owns him too many nights out of the year. Tonight, he is the alpha.

“Say it.”

“ _Release_ me.” She snarls. Her hands are free, and she claws at his chest. He hears the fabric rip and feels the warm air hit bare skin. He doesn’t mourn the loss. Let her fight. Let her attack and claw and bite and resist. Mating and courtship is far more invigorating when it’s a war.

He pushes closer, pressing and forcing and aggressively negotiating with her legs until he’s there, hips nestled firm between her thighs. She shudders, limbs trembling even as she sinks nails into his shoulders and virtually shreds the material in a clenched grip. “That’s my girl.” He breathes, rocking slowly against her, eyes rolling closed, a low growl rumbling within his throat. “Let it out. Give it to me. Give it all to me.”

Their balance is precarious at best, one wrong move away from slipping free of the mantle’s support and tumbling forward to a fiery demise. He loves it. The uncertainty of it; the raw fury coating their movements; the white-hot blaze smoldering in his veins and blossoming across her flesh; the way she both attacks him and encourages him, hands clawing, kissing with too much teeth, and hips demanding more, insistent. Her legs kick wildly, like a horse, heels scraping loudly across the wood floors—he wonders if there will be visible marks, come tomorrow—and suddenly lock around his waist. His balance slips, the weight distribution changed unexpectedly, and they drop to the floor. The _thud_ is quite resounding, and his lower back will be bruised for some time.

She sways, slightly off-kilter in his lap, the nails digging deep into his shoulders her only real anchor; the wine is sweet on her breath, and he wonders, for a moment, if he should stop. If he should tug back on the reins, pretend to be the gentleman, and put her to bed. Then her hands release him, relocate to her blouse, and she proceeds to shed clothes with admirable speed and flattering haste. Her hair is mussed, her skin flushed a lovely rose, her lips swollen and bruised, and her eyes dark with pupils dilated wide. She’s hot, smoldering, burning alive in his arms. Anger mixed with bone-deep exhaustion. Drunk, very drunk. And beautiful. Sinfully beautiful.

“I hate him.” She says, succinctly, while her hands rip, tear, shred, and destroy his remaining clothes. “He speaks to me as Marcus did, as though I am a child, as though I am weak, as though I am stupid. He hurts me, just as Maria did. He took my uncle. He took my home. He tried to take you. He thinks you are his. I hate him. I _hate_ him.”

“Iris—” he barely speaks her name before the rest is lost in a shuddering groan; a violent throb splinters from the right junction of neck and shoulder, where teeth are buried deep and tongue laps insistently at the blood churning upward through damaged skin. A wolf, clenching teeth down into its prey. A tigress, locking jaws into its mate. Teeth buried deep, jaw tight, lips suckling to bruise, tongue lapping greedily. It hurts. It hurts and it feels _so good_.

“He tried to take you.” She breathes, withdrawing her teeth and kissing a path to his ear, where her lips rest and she whispers as though sharing her most intimate secrets. “He still believes you are his. His inheritance. His rightful property. He wants you, and he seeks to steal you. But he will _not_ have you.” _Kiss, kiss_ , behind his ear; _kiss, kiss, kiss_ , along the jaw and down the neck and back to the mark she’s given him, bestowing attention there with lips and tongue and teeth scraping even more.

“This is my mark.” She whispers. “It will eventually heal, and it will scar, and you will always remember it. You will always feel it. And people will look upon you and know She-Wolf is your mate. You are hers, and she is yours. Forever and always, until the day we die or the day we kill each other—whichever comes first.”

Her hands tug and pull at his waistband, blindly negotiating without success, until he takes pity on her plight and handles the matter himself. “Do you hate me, Iris?” he asks, quietly, gliding both hands up her naked thighs. She sighs, eyes fluttering closed, spine curving back as she relaxes, even just slightly, and lets herself bask for a moment in the radiating heat.

“Sometimes I think I could. Sometimes I think I do.” She murmurs, leaning heavily against him, arms coiled loosely around his neck, cheek to his shoulder. “But it feels too much like love. I do not know the difference anymore.”

He exhales slowly, tracing the smooth line of her throat with his teeth. She shivers violently when he kneads the jugular slowly, rolling the skin and tormenting the artery beneath while it pulses urgently. The nerves sensing danger; the blood rushing hard and fast; her pulse thundering an erratic tempo…and her hand locks tight around his nape, pressing in place, each low sound stoking his fire into a raging inferno.

“ _Moy tigr_ ,” she whimpers, pressing closer, hips rocking insistently, both hands on him, clutching fiercely, “Please. _Please_ , I cannot…”

He steals the last word with a kiss, one hand delving into her hair and mussing the strands until there is no trace of the pretty picture-perfect mask she wore earlier. He doesn’t allow for tenderness this time, forcing past her lips to find her taste, sweet wine and mint, pushing forward, tilting onto his knees with the other hand barely holding her balance. When he finally draws back, she is dangerously close to the fire, but its’ radiating glow washes over her skin and smolders deep in her eyes and she looks exquisite, breathtaking. Hellfire made flesh. Succubus wrapped in an angel’s skin.

He looks upon her, and something breaks inside. Shatters, erupts into a thousand tiny shards; what was once whole is now a vacant and gaping hole. Perhaps it’s his composure…? But no, that can’t be; he regularly tosses control and composure aside for want of her flesh. It’s something else. Something without a proper name, but at the moment, it has a resounding voice.

“Marry me.”

Iris’ eyes snap open and widen, staring at him as though she’s never seen him before. “…Excuse me?”

She heard him just fine, but he’ll play along and indulge her. “Marry me.” He repeats, and her eyes grow wider, nearly childlike in their vast scope, while her fingers lock a fast grip on his shoulders. He’s not sure just what she’s holding onto: him, or the first physical object that allows her to remain stable and balanced. It’s almost insulting, this subtle implication that she doesn’t trust him to hold her, but staring into her eyes is enough to nudge that childish thought aside. The fire is the last thing on her mind right now.

“You…” she struggles for words, briefly, the incredulity in her stare growing by the second, “You are choosing to do this now?”

His eyebrow quirks a little, almost amused. “You have a better time?”

“When I am not drunk, comes to mind.”

Now, he lets the amusement show itself without restraint, broad across his mouth and prominent in his gaze. Moving his hands isn’t an option, at the moment, so he opts to lean forward and pull her close, until their bodies press flush together and he shares her breath. “Sweet girl,” he croons, brushing his nose slowly against hers, “you’re not that drunk.”

***

“You’re not that drunk.” He whispers, practically mocking her—even if it’s warranted; her excuse was flimsy at best, and she doesn’t even believe herself to be as intoxicated as she claims—and then leans forward to take her lips again. He shows her even less mercy than a moment ago, and he keeps her still in this place, positioned precariously between life and death. The icy chill of a winter’s breeze flits across one side, slipping in from a parted window mere feet away, but she barely feels it. His body burns against hers at the front, and there is fire at her back, flames licking temptingly, hungrily seeking her naked skin, her hair, her life, but still he is there. He could let her go, and she would fall into fire and breathe her last, but he doesn’t. He won’t.

 _Marry me._ Her head spins, wild, frantic, and she only barely remembers to return each kiss. He doesn’t seem to object; he takes her lips regardless, claiming, coveting, plundering, without mercy and, to be frank, without permission. Her pride is angry with him, furious with the way he claims her as his own— _but I am_ —and now seeks to claim her in the last way remaining: marriage. _Marry me. Marry me._

He takes her; she feels it, but only barely, because her memories run unchecked in some kind of perverse slideshow, a show put on by the Devil himself, perhaps, for only the Devil would make her remember—now, when she is in her tiger’s arms and he’s inside her, making love to her with tooth and claw and skin blazing hot—childhood. Some of it, all of it, it doesn’t matter when the memories are all the same. 

Marcus and his lady friends in the study, at all hours, doing anything but professional work while his company devoured itself from the inside out; the wood of his desk creaks, loudly, and moans break the silence at escalating levels. Maria flirting with ambassadors at a gala; two catch her attention and hold it longer than the rest, and she takes both with her to bed that night. Marcus and the wife of a rival CEO, in the hallway at the company’s annual Christmas party; he wears a predatory smile, she is eager to humiliate her husband, and both are without care for public decency.

Maria perched at her vanity, white robe flowing in thick layers and artful ruffles; there is a small glass bowl nearby, white powder crushed inside, and she carefully deposits those contents into her glass, fills it with wine, and drinks the bottle empty. Marcus at his desk, on the rare occasion a woman was not at his side, imported rum within easy reach. The sounds of both Maria and Marcus screaming curses at one another, exactly three doors down from their daughter’s room, and then a violent crash, another thud, and then the sound of wood beating incessantly against the bedroom wall while her father…

Maria, on her daughter’s seventh birthday, calling her to the bedroom, the one specifically reserved for Maria without her husband’s presence. She orders Iris in the far corner, the one directly facing the bed, and instructs her to watch while she consummates the evening with her chosen paramour. She commands her daughter to watch, to watch it all, and promises to beat Iris until she screams, should the command be ignored. When it’s done, she tells Iris this was a lesson, a necessary reminder, a vital cornerstone of her young life: she was to watch her mother receive the pleasure she herself will never receive from a man.

“Iris,” Victor’s hand adjusts, though it never leaves her hair, and he tilts her head back, “look at me.”

She is. She must be, because her eyes are gazing in the right direction to be looking at him, but she can’t see him. She sees shapes, colors, blurred past distinction. Her eyes burn; when she blinks, the tears are warm on her cheeks, and they fall freely.

Her body thrums in a familiar way, and she aches. The tears fall faster, now, as she refuses his command and bows her head low. Her pleasure has been found, taken, and she remembers none of it. Still, the dead and buried haunt her. She expects it in the outside world, where she is still the despised spawn, the bastard child never truly legitimized in a marriage infamous for its vulgarity and violent torrents of rage— _they’ll never known the true extent of it_ —but never has her memory been a heartless traitor. Moments in Victor’s arms, in his bed, have been sacred, her sanctuary, the place she cannot be touched by her childhood and its every sickening detail. But now that has been taken from her, because of two little words.

_Marry me._

“Iris.” He repeats, with insistence this time. “ _Look_ at me.”

It hurts. It hurts beyond comprehension. Right now, as they are, as they have been, Victor is safe. He keeps her safe, he strengthens her and comforts her—even in ways that seem contrary to themselves—and he is _safe_. As his lover, she is protected and cherished and defended. She has nothing to fear. By all logical reason, marriage should be a signed, sealed, and irrevocable reassurance of what already exists between them.

But what if it isn’t? What if marriage is not a sanctuary but the Devil’s hall? She knows little of her parents, prior to their marriage, but she knows her father was once a successful artist in his spare time, and her mother was the youngest to ever wear the crown of a beauty queen. Great accomplishments for them both, successful lives all-but assured for them, and then they were wed. Marriage acted as a wicked spell, an evil curse as seen in fairytales, and the once-handsome prince became a beast while the fair princess transformed into a vile monstrosity. What if that happens to her, and to him? If she came to hate him—truly, utterly, completely _hate_ him—how could she continue living? How could she ever…?

“She hated him.” Iris whispers, trembling violently, eyes staring blankly at his chest. “She despised him, and he…I listened to him rape her. More than once, and never _just once_. He once raped her three times in the same night.”

Victor says nothing, but after a moment of silence, she feels kisses on her crown, one after the other. “Do you believe I would do that to you?”

“I have not seen marriage through your eyes.” She answers, pressing her forehead to his shoulder. “You have seen love; I have seen hatred. People believe they know of the vulgarity that plagued my childhood, but they know nothing, Victor. My parents did things to each other, and to me, that people see in cheap movies, riddled with gore and depravity, and they think to themselves, _What kind of sick mind could create such horror?_ But it was not a movie. It was my reality. And it is all I know.”

Again, silence. He adjusts his position, and hers in turn, with arms keeping her close to his chest and a cheek resting atop her damp brow. The fire crackles behind them, dying low in its charred cradle, and then he slowly glides a hand across her bare shoulders. “In all of that,” he murmurs, “I have yet to hear you don’t want to be my wife.”

She doesn’t have the energy to be irritated at his tunneled focus. “I would never say that.”

“Then what would you say?”

 _What indeed._ What would she say? What can she say? Does she want more time to think about it? Does she want to understand just what he’s asking of her, break this down piece by piece, catalog every detail and put it in place and carefully consider it and…And then what? Does she actually believe some great mystery will be revealed, if she behaves like a scientist and explains away her feelings? She’s tried this before; it was a waste of time then and it will be a waste of time now.

“Take me to bed.” She whispers, settling one hand at the back of his neck. “Take me to our place, when I cannot remember anything but you. Please. Tonight, I need you.”

***

They sleep little, dismissing exhaustion for want of each other, hour after hour. He leaves small bite marks on her, from jaw to clavicle, and she opens deep lines of dark red across his back and shoulder blades that will likely scar. As dawn’s first light begins to peek over the horizon, he finally succumbs to physical and mental exhaustion. She doesn’t. She lets him sleep undisturbed for a little while, then slips out of bed. Naked, bruised, marked, claimed and devoured, she opens the balcony windows and steps into the embrace of morning’s early chill. The cold strikes her nerves, coats her open wounds like salt, and burns her lungs with each inhale. She welcomes the pain. It reminds her that she is alive.

_“Why didn’t you just stay dead?”_

“Gotham is my home.” She whispers, letting the wind carry away her words to no one in particular. But the absence of an audience changes nothing of their truth; this city is _her_ home. She was born here. She was raised here. She has been tested and tried by this city time and time again, and each time she has clawed her way to victory, however bittersweet it may have been.

 _“Even an old alpha wolf can regain his place,”_ she hears her own voice, filtering in from memories past, and her lips curve in a slow upward lift, _“if he remembers who he is.”_

An old alpha can regain his crown, and a young wolf can rise up to claim hers.

***

Gotham is a patchwork quilt of different worlds that sometimes intersect, most often stand alone, and always possess individual reputations. The Theater District was once Fish Mooney’s kingdom; now it lies in the hands of her former umbrella boy. Under the warring reign of Carmine Falcone and Sal Maroni, districts primarily filled with the Italian and Irish were claimed by the latter, and the strange places where Italian and Russian clans lived were possessed by the former. But it was never as black-and-white as a dividing line in the sand between each ruling party. In days not so long ago, the lines were blurred past the point of recognition, unless war had been declared. And then the lines were erased completely, because they didn’t matter anymore.

Now, under Cobblepot’s reign, the lines have been effectively destroyed. He has claimed it all for himself, gathered a great melting pot beneath the shadow of his umbrella, and all are to pay homage to the king.

But from the moment she enters this place, the story is not of humble respect for the usurper. Men here are either bent over with age and bitterness, or they are young and filled to the brim with righteous fury. Their women are quiet, some out of forced submission and others with sympathetic pangs to match their lovers. The air is thick with tension. This is no place for a woman to be alone.

And yet here she is.

Alexander Orlov is a man who holds true to the origins of his surname: the eagle in human flesh, with large piercing eyes that seem too dark in this light, too sharp to be set upon a weathered face, and he watches her approach in predatory silence. He studies her as he might a potential meal, sizing her up, taking note of absent defenses, and most of all, holding her gaze with his and staring, unblinking, into her eyes. He knows who she is before any words are exchanged.

“ _Stand down, Ivan._ ” He commands to a large man who she can only assume to be his son, both from his placement and similar facial features, when the latter makes an aggressive forward gesture. “ _Let the little pup approach._ ”

Still, a little pup in their eyes; she lets the anger prick her nerves and then brushes it away. There are more important matters at hand than her pride. “ _Alexander Orlov,_ ” she addresses with respect, standing in place until, after careful consideration, he gestures for her to sit, “ _I thank you for your hospitality._ ”

At her left, the man called Ivan spits her words back at her, declaring her presumptuous to think she is welcome. She blinks, holding his father’s gaze instead of his, and once again Alexander tells him to stand down, more respectfully reminding his son that she did not make presumptions. She simply demonstrated good manners. “ _A far cry from her father._ ” He adds, with an underlying bitterness that does not go missed. 

“ _No one despises the man or his memory more than I._ ” she answers, determined to not be so complacent this time. “ _However, he is the reason I am here._ ”

She has Alexander’s attention, at least for five minutes while he finishes his coffee, and so she speaks quickly and succinctly. When she is finished, Alexander is taking the final sips of his drink, and Ivan violently spits at her feet. His father says nothing, and she didn’t expect him to. She will face this on her own.

“ _First that spineless little worm,_ ” Ivan declares furiously, “ _and now you, spawn of a whore. You think you can come in here and command us? Command my father? I will rip your scalp from your skull first!_ ”

“ _You may regard me as little better than the flightless bird,_ ” she answers, steeled and resolved and unmoved by the smoldering fury in one set of eyes and the quiet neutrality in another, “ _but I am the rightful heir to this clan. If you wish to claim this place for yourself, such is your right. But we settle it according to the laws of this family._ ”

Alexander lights his pipe. Ivan takes a pointed step toward her, dark eyes flashing. “ _Such arrogance._ ” He mocks lowly. “ _Not so different from her father after all._ ”

“ _My father had no rights to this clan._ ” She replies. “ _He was a leech. A witless worm._ ”

“ _And you are the whore who takes in street rats and spread her legs for Falcone’s freak._ ” Ivan smirks, speaking louder now, that others might hear, and laughter ripples throughout the crowd. She says nothing, only holds his gaze with cold composure, and after a moment more of shared amusement with his fellows, the large man straightens, as though to demonstrate his full strength, and approaches his father. “ _I will be your champion, Father. And when I am finished, this toothless bitch will be crushed beneath my heel. What little she owns, will be ours for the taking. That pretty little thief she keeps at her side, and her freak lover._ ”

Alexander releases a rich plume of smoke. “ _What use do I have for a freak?_ ” he asks, dryly, unimpressed.

“ _He is a freak, an oddity, but he is the finest killer to walk these streets._ ” Ivan smiles at her, white teeth resembling a crocodile’s grin. “ _And we can make better use of him than this little girl._ ”

She waits, holding her silence, while the elder ponders over his pipe, occasionally releases a thin stream from equally thin lips that are barely visible beneath his greying beard. Then, after several minutes, he nods. “ _A fight to the death, then. Choose your champion, little one._ ”

Her blue eyes flick back to Ivan’s smirk, then return to his father. “ _I will fight your son myself._ ” She declares. “ _The loser pays with their life. The winner takes all._ ”

Another stream of smoke coils through the air and settles between them. The eagle studies her with great intent, with eyes unblinking, long fingers tapping the stem of his pipe with unhurried patience. Then, he sits upright, pipe set aside, Russian traded for English so thick and guttural beneath his native tongue that it is barely discernible. But, just as in the language of his home country, he is likewise a man of few words in the language of this country.

“Agreed.”


End file.
